Liquid drips down his face and into his eyes and mouth, a mixture of tears and rain and blood. A hand pulls at his clothes, wanting more than anything to be closer than this. His fingers find warm skin underneath the t-shirt too big for his underfed body.

"People say a lot of things," he answers, lips pressed against cheek if only to feel. "They are the ones who are wrong."

Searching for any breath of skin left untouched, his mouth makes love to a bleeding heart. He wants to feel. He wants him to feel.

"It's not wrong," he says, loving kisses are never wrong. "It's perfect."

His body is pressing against his fingertips, but it's not enough. Never is.

"It is," he agrees as do his groping hands. "Except for the part where you're sort of standing on my foot."

Lips never faltering, teeth clash with the embarrassed smiles swallowed by his kiss.

He agrees as he utters a breathy sigh of content because the lips on his neck are just so soft.

His hands are clenched loosely in his hair, more to touch than hold in place, as he whispers, "I want it to be."

He wonders if the metal of the cross around his neck will burn into his skin, if his shivers are caused by the air passing over wet skin or the hand tenderly caressing every inch it can. He decides it doesn't matter.

"Want what?" he asks with a kiss to his sweat-damp brow. "Perfection?"

He'd say yes, but he doesn't like to ask for the impossible.

He shakes his head and mutters, "No, I just want everything to be okay."

"It is okay," he reassures him, because he will make everything okay.

He wishes he could believe this like he believes that the tongue touching his will be the death of him someday.

"They threw stuff –bibles- at me," he manages to gasp between desperate touches of lips, skin, and teeth. "Told me I should die."

He holds their hands between them, lacing the fingers, the hands getting crushed by the warm bodies wanting to be as close as possible.